08-23-2018, 06:55 PM
Without Sam, it had been one lonely year.
The first couple days without him, he had been absolutely miserable. Zachariah wanted nothing more than to join him, wherever he was, whether Sam was busy rotting in hell, frolicking in heaven, or stuck in the middle. He would have done anything to be where he was. Believe him, he tried, but there are only so many times you can slit your wrists. Nothing would work. No matter how bad he hurt himself, all that he felt was a faint, dull ache in his chest.
The worst thing was being hailed as a monster by everyone. He knew that once his face was plastered all over the news, it was over. He couldn't redeem himself, and he couldn't hide when everyone and their mother had witnessed his sobbing mugshot in the papers. There were reporters that nested outside where he was held, begging to know why he had done it, what he had been thinking, what he felt. They wanted to know if he was sorry, if he had any shred of humanity left in him. What had turned him psycho overnight?
The truth is, he hadn't been in control of himself. He had been made a prisoner in his own body; it was as if his body had a mind of its own. However, explaining that to the police had been rather difficult. They might have thought he was just trying to get thrown into a loony bin rather than jail - voices made me do it and all, insanity plea, but Zachariah swore up and down, he never would have done this in a million years. Nothing could have ever made him hurt a hair on his husband's body, not of his own volition. It was forces from beyond, he had said, and then they put him in a padded cell.
He had been so full of explanations then, desperate to save his ass and his image, but now he just accepts it. He's a murderer. There's no easy way around it, no possible way to sugarcoat it. He had cut his husband up in the bathtub, for God's sake. How can he justify that?
"No," Zachariah says, voice breaking. "I, uh, just - just forgot to shower. Y'know how it is." He plays it off with a wave of his hand and a brittle laugh, though he can't mask the fact that he's on the verge of tears. He wants nothing more than to cling to Sam like his life depends on it, but Sam has already gotten a whiff of his decomposing body, and there's only so close he can get before the poor man ends up vomiting. He's already looking queasy.
For the sake of Sam's nose, he keeps his distance, though his hand remains on his knee. He's fearful that if he takes his hands off Samsa for one minute, he'll disappear, or start coming apart at the seams. "...how do you feel?" he asks. "Achy? Does... are - are you dizzy at all? Is your throat dry?" It just now dawns on him that Samsa probably can't see anything. Zachariah has no clue where his glasses are. It's probably for the best Sam can't get a good look at him. He's already freaked by his smell - God forbid he gets a look at him and his decaying body. "Are you cold? Does your head hurt? I, uh, I can get you an aspirin."
The first couple days without him, he had been absolutely miserable. Zachariah wanted nothing more than to join him, wherever he was, whether Sam was busy rotting in hell, frolicking in heaven, or stuck in the middle. He would have done anything to be where he was. Believe him, he tried, but there are only so many times you can slit your wrists. Nothing would work. No matter how bad he hurt himself, all that he felt was a faint, dull ache in his chest.
The worst thing was being hailed as a monster by everyone. He knew that once his face was plastered all over the news, it was over. He couldn't redeem himself, and he couldn't hide when everyone and their mother had witnessed his sobbing mugshot in the papers. There were reporters that nested outside where he was held, begging to know why he had done it, what he had been thinking, what he felt. They wanted to know if he was sorry, if he had any shred of humanity left in him. What had turned him psycho overnight?
The truth is, he hadn't been in control of himself. He had been made a prisoner in his own body; it was as if his body had a mind of its own. However, explaining that to the police had been rather difficult. They might have thought he was just trying to get thrown into a loony bin rather than jail - voices made me do it and all, insanity plea, but Zachariah swore up and down, he never would have done this in a million years. Nothing could have ever made him hurt a hair on his husband's body, not of his own volition. It was forces from beyond, he had said, and then they put him in a padded cell.
He had been so full of explanations then, desperate to save his ass and his image, but now he just accepts it. He's a murderer. There's no easy way around it, no possible way to sugarcoat it. He had cut his husband up in the bathtub, for God's sake. How can he justify that?
"No," Zachariah says, voice breaking. "I, uh, just - just forgot to shower. Y'know how it is." He plays it off with a wave of his hand and a brittle laugh, though he can't mask the fact that he's on the verge of tears. He wants nothing more than to cling to Sam like his life depends on it, but Sam has already gotten a whiff of his decomposing body, and there's only so close he can get before the poor man ends up vomiting. He's already looking queasy.
For the sake of Sam's nose, he keeps his distance, though his hand remains on his knee. He's fearful that if he takes his hands off Samsa for one minute, he'll disappear, or start coming apart at the seams. "...how do you feel?" he asks. "Achy? Does... are - are you dizzy at all? Is your throat dry?" It just now dawns on him that Samsa probably can't see anything. Zachariah has no clue where his glasses are. It's probably for the best Sam can't get a good look at him. He's already freaked by his smell - God forbid he gets a look at him and his decaying body. "Are you cold? Does your head hurt? I, uh, I can get you an aspirin."
[align=center]characters + 16 + he/him